


Say Yes to the Dress II

by AZGirl



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, Humor, Men in Dresses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-16
Updated: 2016-03-17
Packaged: 2018-05-27 00:20:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6261685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AZGirl/pseuds/AZGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes in order to complete their missions, the Musketeers are required to make a fashion statement by stepping into a woman’s shoes.  Find out which of the Musketeers cuts the finest figure and why they are all dressed up with somewhere to go. Collaboration with celticgal1041.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blue

**Author's Note:**

> This mini-series of stories is a collaboration with Celticgal1041. In chapter 5 of her story, Bound and Determined, it is said that Aramis wore a “green dress [that] brought out the gold flecks in his eyes.” In my review of that chapter, I commented that it was a great prompt for a story. In no time at all, I go from prompting her to writing that backstory to both of us agreeing to tackle two each of the Musketeers in dresses for a total of four, mostly-separate short stories. 
> 
> Each chapter tells the story of one of the guys having to wear a dress and is named after the color of the garment they had to wear. To get the full effect, I recommend you read the chapters in the following order: Green*, Blue, Red*, and Black. (*See: Say Yes to the Dress written by Celticgal1041.)

**ooooooo**

“Wearing the correct dress for any occasion is a matter of good manners.” ~~ Loretta Young. 

ooooooo 

**Chapter One: Blue**

D’Artagnan had been assigned night patrol with Etienne because his mentors were busy following other orders. A few days ago, Aramis and Porthos had been sent on a mission outside of the city, whereas the day before, Athos had been asked to help Captain Tréville with a project. 

It was while he was on patrol with Etienne that an alarm was sounded, someone yelling something about a robbery. Suddenly, he was searching the nearby surrounding streets of Paris for signs of a thief. 

Out of the corner of his eye, d’Artagnan spotted a figure in the shadows hurrying away from an avenue that led directly to the rear of the house of a Marquis who was claiming that his house had been broken into. Running full-tilt, he practically bounced off a wall of a nearby building as he quickly turned the corner to follow after the mysterious figure dressed in a long, floor-length cape. 

D’Artagnan easily caught up to the thief and tackled him to the ground from behind. However, he instantly reared back when he realized that the person was wearing a dress and he had just tackled a _woman_ to the ground. The young man scrambled to get off the lady, apologizing in stilted sentences for potentially hurting her and saying that he must have mistaken her for someone else. 

The woman on the ground uttered a faint moan that sounded unusually deep for a lady, before slowly beginning to turn over onto her back. D’Artagnan started to reach down to help the lady when he saw that the scarf wound about the woman’s face had slipped down far enough to reveal a full beard. And not only a full beard, but a full beard on a face that he instantly recognized. 

It was Athos. 

D’Artagnan’s mind suddenly stopped being able to process any further thoughts. 

It was Athos. In a dress. 

Athos. Dress. 

It was if his mind could not accept what he was seeing. How? Why? What the…? 

“If you don’t mind, d’Artagnan. I could use a hand up. It’s not easy getting around in this blasted dress let alone rising from the ground.” 

At first, his mind didn’t register that Athos had just spoken to him, because he was still fixating on the outfit the older man was currently wearing. However, when Athos thrust a hand in his direction, his ability to think and move suddenly returned to him. 

D’Artagnan grabbed the proffered hand and started tugging his friend up off the ground, helping Athos remain upright when the older man nearly tripped over the hem of his skirt. 

“Athos…. What—? I mean… Why are you—?” 

He knew he wasn’t making much sense and that he was practically incomprehensible, but somehow Athos understood what he was trying to say. 

“I am sorry, but I cannot explain right now. I will—” 

The sound of footsteps heading in their direction prompted Athos to halt whatever he had been about to say. A moment later, Etienne was calling out d’Artagnan’s name, sounding slightly worried. 

“Do not give me away,” Athos whispered. 

D’Artagnan nodded slightly as Athos replaced the scarf around his face and Etienne ran up to them. 

“D’Artagnan, did you find—?” the Musketeer asked, eying the woman his young friend was supporting by holding onto one elbow. 

“Hurry! I was chasing him when he knocked this lady down to the ground. He’s gone that way,” d’Artagnan said, pointing down the street Athos had been heading down before they had collided. 

“She is alright?” Etienne asked as he moved past them. “You will see her home?”

“Yes on both counts,” d’Artagnan replied. He gestured down the street. “Go! You can’t let him get away.” 

Etienne took off down the street running, and he felt guilty for lying to the older man, but Athos must have a reason for…all of this. Whatever it was. At least he hoped so. 

“Thank you,” Athos said. 

D’Artagnan dipped his head in acknowledgment, uncertain of what to say or do next. 

“I know that you would like an explanation, but I urgently have to get to a meeting,” Athos looked down the street both ways and sighed. “It will look a lot less suspicious if I have an escort. Will you do me the honor?” 

The Gascon had to stop himself from smiling like an idiot at the request, which to him was further evidence of the trust the older man must have in him after only knowing each other for less than a handful of months. 

“Of course, Mademoiselle,” d’Artagnan said cheekily, bowing slightly and taking Athos’s hand to place in the crook of his arm. “Lead the way.” 

Athos’s eyebrow practically became one with his hairline as he glared at the younger man, but he allowed d’Artagnan to escort him to the meeting location, hiding his slight smile at the fact that his companion was so willing to help him despite not knowing the full circumstances. He still did not understand why this young man was so willing to give him his trust and friendship after so short an acquaintance. 

It wasn’t until d’Artagnan and Athos were sitting in a room that the older man had rented as a base of operations for his mission, that a full explanation for his curious attire was given. Athos informed his young friend about the corrupt Marquis and the evidence that he had been sent to procure. The older Musketeer had noted that the Marquis often invited small groups of beautiful, young women into his house and had considered it an opportunity. He would dress as a woman, join a group of them at the last moment, and hopefully be allowed into the house. Once inside he’d search for the required evidence of the man’s illegal activities and leave without the Marquis suspecting anything. Needless to say, he had been unable to make a clean getaway, which is when d’Artagnan had literally run into him. 

D’Artagnan listened to the tale with rapt attention as Athos explained why he had been wearing a navy blue dress whose fabric was reminiscent of cloth that he had seen at the Bonacieux’ house, cloth he knew Constance was planning to make a dress with. He had no idea that Musketeers could be sent out to complete a mission like that. He had no idea that being sent undercover in service of the King might require one to dress as a woman, and wondered if either Porthos or Aramis had ever had to do the same. Perhaps this mission was simply a fluke and such a thing was only very rarely required. 

At the end of the night, Athos extracted two promises from him: he was to keep that night’s mission a secret and he was absolutely forbidden to tell their two friends about the dress. It was only the second one that he wished he could break and talk to Aramis and Porthos about. But would they ever believe that Athos had donned a dress for a mission? Regardless, the memory of his discovery of Athos in a dress would linger in his mind’s eye for far too long. 

ooooooo 

_Some months later…_

While on his way back to the garrison after being on early duty at the palace, d’Artagnan had spotted Constance with Monsieur Bonacieux at the marketplace. Bonacieux leaned into his wife and said something, which must have been amusing since it caused Constance to smile and laugh, making her eyes light up in delight.

Unable to stand seeing the two of them so happy together so soon after Constance’s rejection, d’Artagnan changed directions and headed straight towards the nearest tavern that did not cater to the Red Guards. He might want to drink himself under the table, but he was smart enough, at least while he was still sober, to attempt to avoid that kind of potential trouble. 

He had managed to finish the majority of a bottle of wine before Athos found him and practically dragged him out of the tavern. Athos brought d’Artagnan back to his rooms and set several bottles of wine on the table for them to share, wanting to keep watch over the lovelorn young man and prevent him from doing something truly stupid. 

D’Artagnan was well on his way to being beyond drunk by the time Aramis and Porthos had found the two of them. Athos met them at the door and quietly explained what was going on, the two offering to get some food and definitely more alcohol so they could keep d’Artagnan company through this latest bout of melancholy. 

The three men soon discovered that the more inebriated d’Artagnan got, the more he tended to babble randomly about a wide variety of topics, from that of his horse to his thoughts about Cardinal Richelieu. Porthos and Aramis, with wicked gleams in their eyes, encouraged this oft times hilarious commentary while Athos simply sat back and listened; only interrupting when the chatter switched to topics he thought the young man might not appreciate having shared with others. 

However, at one point during the night, Athos did not recognize what d’Artagnan was babbling about quickly enough to prevent his own impending doom. 

“…and she…she was wearing that beautiful navy blue dress, which al-always reminds me of the one, the one you wore that one night, Athos.” 

Athos sucked in a breath of surprise at the words that d’Artagnan had just drunkenly uttered. Unfortunately, he had also been taking a drink of his wine and had begun to choke on the liquid as it went down his throat wrong. As he was coughing, he felt a hand clumsily pat his back. When he finally ceased his coughing, he saw d’Artagnan withdrawing his hand, the young man’s face looking worried about his well-being. He nodded that he was alright. 

That’s when he noticed how unusually quiet it was in the room, prompting him to remember why he had been coughing in the first place. He could feel the heat rising in his neck and the tips of his ears as he dared to look Porthos and Aramis in the eyes. 

“Ha!” Aramis said triumphantly, holding out his hand, palm up, to Porthos. “Pay up.” 

Porthos cursed and shifted in his seat to reach into his boot for his coin purse. Taking out several coins he dropped them into Aramis’s waiting hand before returning the bag back to its hiding place in his boot. Athos watched the exchange, not understanding what was going on, while d’Artagnan looked as if he were going to drop off to sleep at any moment. 

Once Aramis pocketed the coins, he asked, “How long has that bet been outstanding? Two years?” 

“I thought it were three,” Porthos said. 

“No, I’m pretty sure it was two,” Aramis said, with a grin on his face. 

Porthos made a show of thinking about it and then nodded. 

Athos’s blush of embarrassment had long ago turned into the heat of anger, which he was now barely holding himself back from expressing. 

Instead, he sighed and said, “Gentlemen.” 

His two oldest friends looked at him with feigned confusion on their faces. 

Athos couldn’t help the eyebrow that rose of its own accord on his face. “The bet?” 

The insincere confusion lasted for a few more moments before Aramis finally broke down laughing, joined seconds later by Porthos. 

“Wha’s so funny?” d’Artagnan asked, the words muddled due to his over-indulgence of wine. 

Aramis chuckled and said, “Well, my friend, after my adventure with Madame Chevreaux and a certain green dress, Porthos and I made a bet as to whether or not Athos would ever stoop so low as to wear a dress for King and Country.”—He patted his pocket with the coins a couple times, making them clink together and causing Porthos to lightly smack the back of Aramis’s head—“It seems we now have the answer to that question. Porthos said you’d never do it, and I knew it would only be a matter of time.” 

The way Athos glared at his two supposed friends, even d’Artagnan’s alcohol-soaked mind couldn’t help but wonder if Porthos and Aramis wouldn’t suddenly be reduced to ashes because of it. 

“Ah yes, Aramis,” Porthos said, sounding wistful and ignoring the look from Athos. “I still remember how the dress brought out the gold flecks in your eyes.” 

Aramis punched Porthos in the shoulder just as d’Artagnan lowered his head to his arms already resting on the table. 

“Yeah… Athos’s eyes… Pretty,” the young man quietly mumbled as he passed out. 

As Porthos and Aramis struggled to keep from laughing out loud and waking d’Artagnan, Athos felt the flush of embarrassment creep up his neck once more, and knew he would never live that comment down for as long as he breathed. 

ooooooo 

_The end._

**ooooooo**

 

**Next time: _Black_.**


	2. Black

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Includes brief mentions of the Red chapter from Celticgal1041’s Say Yes to the Dress.  
> .

**ooooooo**

“Always dress like you are going to see your worst enemy.” ~~ Kimora Lee Simmons. 

ooooooo

 

 **Chapter Two: Black**

“You are out of your mind, if you think _anyone_ would _ever_ believe—” 

“You’re right. It’s hideous.” 

“Oi!” 

ooooooo 

_Seventy-two hours earlier_ … 

“Porthos!” d’Artagnan said to the weary-looking man leading his horse into the garrison. “You’re back early.” 

Porthos handed the reins of his horse to the stable boy, and began taking his gloves off. “Yeah. The roads were better than Captain Tréville thought they’d be. I guess that big storm didn’t hit there as hard.” 

“That’s great,” d’Artagnan said, clapping the older man on the shoulder. “We—” 

“We can use all the help we can get,” Aramis said. 

“What’s goin’ on?” Porthos asked. 

Athos came upon them from behind and walked past the trio, gesturing for his friends to follow him. They took seats at their usual table, and after d’Artagnan brought them something to eat, Aramis began to update Porthos on the events which had occurred while he had been away on his mission. 

As they ate, Aramis explained that reports had reached them of wealthy widows being accosted and robbed while walking home from church services. The thief would very politely, but at knife point, force the women into one of the more secluded alleys that infested Paris and divest them of their jewels. 

Thus far, no one had been injured, but the matter had finally managed to come to the attention of the King. A distant cousin on his father’s side of the family had been boldly attacked outside of Notre Dame and a priceless piece of heirloom jewelry had been taken. The cousin had not been injured, but King Louis had taken the act as an attack on his royal person. Though the older woman was only a distant cousin, he still considered her to be his family, and as such, something had to be done. 

As a result, the Musketeers had been called in to investigate and find the thief. Athos, Aramis, and d’Artagnan had been assigned to investigate despite the fact that their fourth was currently out on a mission. They began by interviewing the women who had been attacked while other Musketeers tried to find out how the thief was managing to escape seemingly without a trace. 

Through the combined intelligence that had been gathered, the three had begun to notice that there were several men that seemed to be present just before or just after all of the robberies. Believing this to be suspicious, the Musketeers had decided to question each of the men, but nothing concrete had been discovered and no one had bothered to give a convenient confession. They had to think of another way to catch the thief. 

The only – and perhaps best solution – had come from a chance remark by d’Artagnan. They needed to convince someone to act as bait to draw the thief out. Immediately, they had thought to ask Constance, knowing she was more than capable of taking care of herself, but she could not escape her duties to the Queen at the moment. Unfortunately, they could not think of anyone else to ask who would be brave enough for the task. 

Not having the manpower to stake out every possible target, they were at a loss for another actionable plan. After brainstorming for what was probably longer than was healthy, Aramis’ expression transformed from one of utter boredom to one of triumph while appraising d’Artagnan from across the room. D’Artagnan, meanwhile, must have felt the attention on him because he looked up, locked eyes with Aramis for only a moment, and suddenly felt like he needed to leave the area forthwith, though he did not exactly understand why. 

“It _was_ your idea,” Aramis said, forestalling d’Artagnan’s thoughts of escape. 

D’Artagnan’s eyes widened as comprehension transformed his face. He abruptly stood and started inching towards the door of Athos’ room. Athos, having also caught on to what Aramis was implying, began moving to intercept the younger man. 

“Yes,” Athos said, drawing out the word. “It was indeed his idea. Therefore, he should do it.” 

D’Artagnan shook his head emphatically. “No! No way. Not after last time with that red horror and…and that _thing_ I had to wear on my head. Not going to happen.” 

“It’s your duty,” Aramis said with a cheeky smile on his face. 

The Gascon gave him a glare that rivaled one of Athos’s most deadly ones. Aramis thought it was rather impressive that d’Artagnan had managed to learn how to copy such a look from Athos. Evidently Athos also thought it mildly impressive as his eyebrow rose a fraction. 

“My duty!” d’Artagnan repeated. “Why can’t _you_ do it?”—he gestured towards Athos—“Or him!” 

“The King expects this to be resolved as soon as possible. This is the most expedient way,” Athos replied, his voice pitched to sound as if he were being reasonable. 

D’Artagnan put his hands on his hips. “You just don’t want to have to do it,” he said. 

“Exactly!” two voices said in concert, with each of the men donning their own versions of playful grins, which prompted d’Artagnan to throw his hands up in frustration. 

The young Musketeer started towards the door again, grumbling about the fact that he was always the victim of their more insane plans and cursing the last time he’d had to don a dress. D’Artagnan was almost to the door when he suddenly stopped mid-step. Completing a sudden about-face, Aramis and Athos, who had been following a pace or two behind in deference to d’Artagnan’s anger, had to abruptly stop or run into the young man, bumping into each other instead. 

A huge grin erupted on d’Artagnan’s face, and one might say that there was more than a touch of triumph in it. “Ha!” 

“What?” Athos asked, feeling things were about to become complicated again. 

“I can’t do it.” 

“Why not?” Aramis asked. 

“You both are forgetting one critical detail.” 

Athos’s expression made it clear that the detail better be important. “And what’s that?” 

“All of our suspects have seen each of us, heard our voices… There’s no way I wouldn’t be recognized.” 

“Which means that the two of us run the risk of being recognized as well.” Athos gestured towards the door. “I will go speak to the Captain and see if he has any ideas.”—he looked at d’Artagnan—“Can you ask Constance for an idea of who could possibly help with this…this plan?” 

D’Artagnan nodded and followed Athos out through the door, splitting off from his friend almost immediately. 

ooooooo 

The four now reunited Musketeers were sitting in the mess drinking wine in front of the fireplace, enjoying the privileges of seniority – d’Artagnan doing so by a form of osmosis. 

“Any ideas?” Athos asked Porthos when Aramis had finished recounting what had been happening the past several days. 

Porthos shook his head in the negative, taking another drink of his wine. 

D’Artagnan suddenly began to chuckle. 

“What amuses you?” Aramis asked. 

“I was just thinking…” d’Artagnan smiled and looked into the fire. “There is _one_ of us that our suspects have not yet seen.” 

“Really? Who is—?” Aramis asked before quickly coming to the same realization as d’Artagnan had. 

Aramis sat up straighter and locked eyes with Athos, who had a considering look on his face. 

“You don’t think—?” Athos asked. 

“It might…” Aramis replied as he ran a hand through his hair. “Do _you_ think—?” 

Porthos and d’Artagnan’s heads went from one friend to the other as if they were watching a tennis match. 

“I was joking!” d’Artagnan blurted out, interrupting the two men. “There’s no way it could work!” 

D’Artagnan’s exclamation caught Porthos’s attention. “What’s goin’ on?” 

With a mischievous smile on his face, Aramis said, “Porthos, d’Artagnan has an idea…” 

“Don’t you _dare_ blame this on me”—d’Artagnan pointed a finger at first Aramis and then Athos before turning towards Porthos—“I swear I was joking. I didn’t mean it. It was an idle thought…” 

“What was?” Porthos asked, noticing all three of his closest friends looking at him. It then dawned on him that there could only be one thing the men were talking about. “Seriously?!” 

ooooooo 

The next morning, d’Artagnan went to Constance about helping them procure a suitable dress, and returned to the garrison with a satisfied look on his face. He sat down with his friends at their usual table. 

“We’re in luck – sort of.” 

“Sort of?” Athos repeated. 

“Yeah, well it’s good luck for us, but not so much for Madame Delamort.” 

“Speak plainly; it’s too early in the morning for anything else.” 

“My apologies,” d’Artagnan said as he poured some watered-down wine into a cup. “Madame Delamort has passed away in her sleep just days after her husband had died. She left behind a partially completed order for two mourning dresses.” 

“Two?” 

D’Artagnan nodded. “Constance said that the dressmaker is a friend and would be willing to help.” 

Aramis clapped Porthos on the shoulder as he stood. “What do you say we go visit this dressmaker, Porthos?” 

“What do you say to us figuring out another plan?” 

“Come on, my friend,” Aramis said, placing an arm on Porthos’s upper back, steering him towards the garrison’s gates. “We’ve all had to do it. Why should you miss out on all the fun?” 

“Fun? Right.” Porthos said before increasing his speed to catch up with d’Artagnan while grumbling something unflattering about his friends’ parentage. 

ooooooo 

Constance had been right; the dressmaker, Renaud, had indeed been willing to help them with their ridiculous scheme. Measurements were taken and Renaud promised to have the dress ready the next day. 

The Musketeers were hopeful that the dress would be ready in time for Sunday Mass. While a couple of the robberies had been committed during the week, the majority had taken place on Sunday when the thief could more easily blend into the crowds heading home for their dinners*. If the Musketeers didn’t receive the dress on time, then they would likely have to wait a whole other week to entrap the robber. 

Just after midday the following day, word came that the dress was ready. It wasn’t strictly necessary for the other three men to accompany Porthos, but they had no intention of missing the debut of their friend wearing a dress. 

Porthos attempted to dissuade them from accompanying him, but Aramis summed it up best when he said, “All for one, my dear Porthos. How could you think we’d let you go through this alone?” 

“It’s a dress, not a skirmish with a score of bandits.” 

“Exactly,” d’Artagnan said, bouncing on the balls of his feet and looking way too enthusiastic. “After what I went through, there’s no way I’m missing this.” 

“Athos?” Porthos said, the one word sounding as if it were a plea for help. 

Athos’s eyebrow rose slightly before he said, “I need to see if this insane plan is going to work.” 

“Traitors,” Porthos said as he jogged up the steps leading to the door of the dressmaker’s shop. He started to reach towards the door latch but redirected his hand to point at each one of the men in turn. “You’re all traitors.” 

Throwing open the door, Porthos stepped inside the shop, followed closely by Aramis, who briefly turned back towards d’Artagnan and Athos and winked. D’Artagnan had to cough to cover up the laugh that bubbled up and out of him, while the corners of Athos’s mouth briefly quirked up. 

Renaud looked exhausted but triumphant. “Come this way, Monsieur Porthos, I have the dress ready for you to try on.” 

The dressmaker led Porthos to a changing room, the three Musketeers following along after, and began to shut himself and Porthos in it together. 

“Whoa now! I’ve got this,” Porthos said, trying to force the man out. 

Renaud adopted a tolerant expression. “Monsieur Porthos, while I’m sure you have plenty of experience taking a dress off a woman, it is quite another to put one on.” 

The door is pushed closed and it is several seconds later when Porthos hears the laughter of his three “friends.” It is those laughs the incite Porthos’s plan for revenge, but that would have to wait for another day. 

When he was through dressing, Renaud opened the door and pushed Porthos out into the main room of the salon. 

Porthos just managed to not trip on the train of the dress. “Well?” he asked while trying to keep from feeling embarrassed about wearing the voluminous dress. 

His three friends stared at him, all of them looking at each other as if daring the other to speak. 

Finally, Athos crossed his arms, tilted his head towards Aramis, and said, “You are out of your mind, if you think anyone would _ever_ believe—” 

“You’re right,” Aramis said, scratching his beard. “It’s hideous.” 

“Oi!” Porthos said as he listened to d’Artagnan giggle, but one glare quickly shut the younger man up. 

Renaud, with an amused look on his face, stepped forward, holding a bunch of black, lacey fabric. “I had enough material left over from the second dress that—” 

“I’m sorry… Second dress?” Athos asked. 

“Yes, Madame Delamort—God rest her soul”—Renaud crossed himself, as did Aramis—“was quite petite in stature. I needed to combine both of her dresses in order to construct one large enough for Monsieur Porthos.” 

“Of course. Carry on,” Athos said, studiously ignoring the awkward-sounding coughing noises coming from behind him that he suspected were laughs. Porthos took a step towards the two “coughing” men and the noise suddenly stopped. 

“What was I saying?” Renaud looked at the fabric in his hands. “Oh, yes, that’s right. I made this for Monsieur Porthos.” 

The dressmaker handed the fabric to Porthos, who looked unsure about what he was supposed to do with it. 

“What’s this for?” 

“For your face and your head, of course. It’s to help conceal the fact that you are a man.” 

With each word Renaud uttered, Porthos seemed to get angrier and angrier. 

“If I’m wearing a veil, how come one of you couldn’t do this?” 

“Porthos, my friend,” Aramis said, looking and sounding sheepish. “We honestly did not even think of that. I apologize.” 

Porthos looked at the men before him and could tell that the little detail had completely escaped their attentions and so he nodded his acceptance of Aramis’s words. 

“However,” Athos said, “Since the dress has already been altered to fit you and we have no more time, we’re going to have to stick with the plan as it now stands.” 

ooooooo 

The next day, Porthos sat through Sunday Mass, the jewels the Musketeers had borrowed on full display. He paid little attention as he thought about what might come after the service. 

As planned, he lingered a little after the service was over, adopting a prayerful position. After a minute or so, Porthos slowly stood with the aid of his cane and attempted to make himself look as small as possible under the mounds of fabric. From the look Aramis gave as he passed by, he hadn’t much succeeded. 

Stepping out into the sunlight and turning right, Porthos started slowly walking “home,” praying the ruse would work the first time and he wouldn’t have embarrassed himself for nothing. His silver-handled cane, made for someone much shorter than him, tapped out a slow beat as he pretended to use it as an aid in his walking. 

He knew he looked utterly ridiculous – _hideous_ , as some might say – with his massive frame covered by yards and yards of black fabric which managed to trap heat almost worse than his leathers did. He was almost literally sweating buckets under the tent-like dress he had been forced to wear due to circumstances beyond his control. 

He knew about Aramis and d’Artagnan’s adventures wearing a dress, but wondered what Athos had done to keep his gender from being discovered. After d’Artagnan had drunkenly let the secret out, Athos had been very careful to deflect any inquiries into what had happened that night. Much to his and Aramis’s dismay, they couldn’t even pry anymore details out of d’Artagnan – sober or drunk. 

Porthos was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he was caught by surprise when he felt the sharp end of a dagger dig into his back slightly. The sensation was immediately followed by a deep voice. “I apologize, Madame, but I have need of a moment or two of your time.” 

Porthos nodded jerkily, and the thief directed him towards one of the hidden recesses that he and his fellow Musketeers had been scoping out for the past few days. With every step, he could feel the sharpness of the knife digging into his back, somehow managing to hover over his skin without actually cutting it. 

“That will do, Madame,” the thief’s voice said from behind him. 

The mourning-clad Musketeer stopped as directed and waited, occasionally faking a shudder now and again to make it seem as if the “Madame” was afraid. 

“Now, if you would be so kind, please drop the cane and put your lovely jewelry into this bag,” the man said as a cloth bag was delicately placed on his shoulder. 

Again, he did as he was told, but only so far as to drop his cane. He plucked the bag off of his shoulder with a greatly shaking hand and fumbled it before dropping it to the ground. From behind him, he heard a long-suffering sigh and a soft curse. The sharp point of the blade at his back suddenly disappeared as the thief went to pick up the bag. 

In the moment that the thief was off-balanced, Porthos kicked out and connected with the thief’s legs, causing the man to tumble to the ground. A string of curse words burst forth from the thief’s mouth as he reorganized his limbs in order to stand up again. 

“Do you speak to your mother like that?” Porthos asked in his normal, deep voice as his stance quickly morphed from a frail, hunched-over posture to one that was tall and strong. 

The thief, who had barely made it to his knees, jerked his head up in surprise, which caused him to overbalance slightly. 

Porthos kicked out once more, causing the shocked man to fall down onto his backside. He stepped up to the thief and placed a leg on the man’s chest to keep him from moving. 

Pulling off his veil, Porthos smiled with a grin so large it barely fit on his sweaty face. “Surprise.” 

ooooooo 

After the reveal, everything happened much as one would expect it to. The thief, who ended up _not_ being one of their prime suspects, was now considering the error of his ways in the Châtelet. The Musketeers were able to get him to reveal the whereabouts of the jewels. Though some had been sold, the majority had been recovered, including those of the King’s cousin. Mission accomplished. 

Athos, d’Artagnan, and Aramis had been left to deal with the details of the arrest and its aftermath, while Porthos had gone to get out of the blasted dress as soon as was possible. 

With the arrest, the recovery of the jewels, and the reporting to Captain Tréville and the King, the four Musketeers had somehow not managed to reconnect until later in the evening. 

The three men who had not had to wear a dress eventually caught up with Porthos in the garrison’s mess. As they stepped through the door, they saw Porthos throw something small and black into the fire. 

They poured themselves something to drink and sat with their friend who was intently watching the flames hungrily devour whatever Porthos had thrown into the fireplace. 

“Was that—?” Aramis quietly asked. 

“Aye,” Porthos said with a slow nod of his head. “And this”—he reached in between his doublet and the side of the chair he was sitting in and lifted a small bundle of cloth up, the gaudy lace trim clearly visible despite the dark color—“is the last of it.” 

Porthos tossed the bundle onto the flames, which briefly flared up before they began to consume the new fuel. 

“Never again,” he said, sounding as if he had just made a solemn vow. 

Aramis, Athos, and d’Artagnan all watched as the fire consumed and turned to ash the last of the dress Porthos had so recently worn. 

They each thought of their own misadventures in a dress and collectively shuddered. As one they solemnly nodded their heads in agreement. The four men did not care if the King ordered them to do it; none of them would ever again consent to wearing a dress. 

“Never again,” the three, along with Porthos, repeated in one voice before clinking together their glasses of wine and drinking down the contents in one gulp. 

ooooooo 

_The end._

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *In this case, I’m using “dinner” to mean the midday meal.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to celticgal1041 for her beta of this story; all remaining mistakes are mine. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
